Chapter 5 :  No Special Treatment

By eight the next morning, Damian Blackwood's file is sitting on my desk.

I look at it for a moment and then open it.

Not because I am loath to see him.

I know what comes with patients like Damian. Right.

The name.

The money.

Those who call before the appointment.

The expectation that a hospital will yield to them.

I open the file.

His seven-day rhythm monitor has been arranged. The cardiac imaging has been booked for the future. He is waiting for peer review of his preliminary results.

All is where it should be.

Close.

I can hear my phone ringing.

“Dr. Carter?”

“I’m listening.”

“This is Melissa from admin.”

I look at the clock.

“Yes?”

“We have to speak about Mr. Blackwood’s appointment.”

We do. Of course we do.

“About it?”

“This morning his office phoned the hospital. They want his testing privately, without the usual waiting process.”

I recline.

“That is not essential.”

“They are prepared to bear the additional costs.”

“It is not about the cost.”

A pause.

“I see.”

“No, I don't think you do. Medically, he's stable enough for the standard process. That doesn't change because of his name.”

“I'll tell him.”

“Go ahead, please.”

I cut the call.

Thirty seconds later, there’s a knock at my door.

I know who it is.

“Come in.”

An expensively dressed man enters.

Not Damian.

His assistant.

He carries a tablet and the expression of someone who has spent years making difficult things disappear.

“Dr. Carter.”

“Mr. Blackwood's assistant?”

“Yes. Daniel.”

He offers his hand.

I shake it.

“What's the problem?”

“There isn't a problem.”

“Then why are you here?”

His mouth twitches.

“Mr. Blackwood prefers efficiency.”

“Me too.”

“He has several commitments today.”

“So does everyone.”

Daniel studies me.

“I was asked to make sure his schedule is accommodated.”

I close the file.

“His medical care will be accommodated. His schedule isn't my priority.”

“That may create complications.”

“It may.”

He doesn't leave.

Neither do I.

Finally, he nods.

“I'll let him know.”

“Please do.”

He gets to the door.

“Doctor?”

“Yes?”

He isn't accustomed to the word no.

I smile a little at him.

“Then this will be instructive.”

He departs.

I go back to Damian's file.

I am not sure if I should laugh or get angry.

Both, probably.

---

He arrives twelve minutes later.

He does. Of course.

The door opens without a knock.

Damian walks in wearing a charcoal suit, a white shirt, and the same controlled expression he wore yesterday.

He shuts the door.

“My assistant said you turned down my request.”

I look at him.

“Good morning.”

His eyes narrow.

“Good morning.”

“Sit.”

He does.

“You could’ve just told me yourself.”

“I said it to your aide.”

“He spoke for me.”

“Then he was right.”

Damian leans back.

“You don’t make it easy.”

“I never said I would.”

His eyes flick over the papers on my desk.

“What is it you are worried about?”

“Your observations.”

That gets his attention.

I turn the monitor toward him.

“In the episode that brought you in, your rhythm was irregular. Recurrent symptoms are more important when you have a history of HCM than they might be otherwise.”

“I know.”

“I know you know.”

“So why are we even having this discussion?”

“Because having a diagnosis and managing it correctly are not the same thing.”

His mouth hardens.

“I have managed it properly.”

“How long?”

“Years.”

“Private?”

Silence.

“Yeah.”

I stare at him.

“Why?”

“Because it’s my health.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“You're not getting any more than that.”

And there it is again.

The wall.

I turn back to the screen.

“Your records are not complete.”

“My records are private.”

“They’re also needed.”

“You have at your fingertips what you need.”

“No. I have access to what you've chosen to give the hospital.”

His jaw shifts.

I continue before he can respond.

“I've requested your previous cardiology records.”

“You didn’t ask me.”

“Why should I have to ask permission for your care records when you have signed for them to be shared?”

His eyes stay on me.

We sit in silence for a moment.

Then he says, “You are very stubborn.”

“I've been called worse.”

“I believe so.”

I nearly smile.

Close.

Instead, I point to the report.

“The imaging doesn’t indicate an acute crisis, but I don’t want to discount the changes we have seen.”

“So I’m not going to die.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re side-stepping the question.”

“Because medicine doesn't work in yes-or-no statements.”

He looks down.

I see the frustration building.

Sweet.

Better to be frustrated than complacent.

“You need ongoing specialist care,” I say. “Not because you are wealthy. Not for being famous. Because you have a condition that changes.”

“How often?”

“We’ll know that when we get all the results.”

He nods his head.

“And the monitor?”

“You'll wear it as I tell you.”

“For seven days.”

“Yes.”

He looks at me as though I'm personally responsible for the length of the week.

“I have meetings.”

“Then have them.”

“With a monitor attached to me?”

“It's small.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I know.”

He studies me.

“What is the point, then?”

“That your heart doesn't care whether you're in a board meeting.”

His expression goes still.

I realize I have said something that sounds harsher than I intended.

But I don't take it back.

His father had died from the same inherited disease.

That fact is quiet between us.

He looks down at his palms.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower.

“I don’t want people to see me.”

“I don't want people to look at you.”

“You want me to have a machine watch me all week.”

“Because information is useful.”

“And if the information is false?”

“Then we take care of it.”

He lifts his eyes.

“You make it all sound so easy.”

“No,” I say.

I look into his eyes.

“I make it so it is doable.”

There's a change in his expression.

Hold on a minute.

And then the door opens.

Dr. Harris walks in with another folder.

“Sorry. I thought you were done.”

“We’re not,” I say.

Damian looks at him.

“Am I being transferred?”

Dr. Harris pauses.

I already know what is next.

He glances at me.

“That is actually why I’m here.”

I sit up straight.

“What happened?”

He shuts the door.

“The review board has looked at Mr. Blackwood’s results.”

Damian’s expression is unreadable.

“And?”

“They want him kept under constant specialist supervision.”

“I can make that happen with my old cardiologist,” says Damian.

Dr. Harris glances at me.

“They want Dr. Carter, specifically, to remain involved.”

Damian slowly turns to me.

I stare at him.

He doesn’t look happy.

I'm not either.

It’s not that I don’t want the case.

It’s because I know what it means to be involved.

More appointments.

More reasons.

More chances for Damian Blackwood to overrule medical judgment.

Dr. Harris puts the folder down on my desk.

“Given his background and the direction we’ve already taken, you’re the best person to lead the next chapter.”

Damian eyes the folder.

Then me.

“I requested a different doctor.”

“I know.”

We get a confused look from Dr. Harris as well.

I guess that is no longer a problem.

“It is,” Damian says.

I nearly laugh.

I open the folder instead.

“We can talk about it after I have the full results.”

His eyes are still on me.

“You've made up your mind.”

“No.”

I flip a page.

“I have made a medical recommendation.”

“And if I don’t agree?”

“Then we go over your options.”

“And if I choose someone else?”

“That’s your right.”

He looks surprised.

I look up.

“But whoever you pick will still have to deal with the same heart.”

Silence.

His eyes go back to the file.

For the first time, I see something underneath his irritation.

Fear.

Not enough to get him to admit it.

Sufficient to make him angry.

Dr. Harris leaves us alone.

Damian stands up.

“I will wear the monitor.”

I look up.

“Good.”

“But I want copies of all results.”

“Certainly.”

“And I want to be sure of that before anyone makes decisions about my treatment.”

“It’s a two-way street.”

His brow creases.

“What’s that mean?”

“If something happens, you don’t hide it from me.”

His face hardens.

I know I have touched the real thing.

“You’re asking for a lot of trust,” he says.

“Nope.”

I put the folder down.

“I'm asking for honesty.”

He studies my face for a long moment.

And then he's at the door.

He

stops at the handle.

“Dr. Carter.”

“Yes?”

“If I agree to this, I expect you to treat me like any other patient.”

I watch him.

“That will be no difficulty.”

A humourless smile flickers faintly.

“Fine.”

He goes away.

I watch the door shut.

Then I look down at his file one more time.

Yesterday’s unexpected patient was Damian Blackwood.

The hospital has decided today that he is to remain in my care.

And already, I somehow get the feeling that keeping him alive might be easier than getting him to tell me the truth.